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Death of an Insect
Olive green and oblong, two parts
to you and seemingly legless.
Motionless and out of your world,
I had to save you before rushing off to work.
Small penance for last week’s fishing trip
in which I watched a catfish take an hour to die,
unable to swim in the pail, gulping water
thick with its own blood.
A dull knife and the breath gone.
Coating it later in egg and cornmeal,
throwing it onto sizzling oil
and unable to eat as I remembered
the dark mouth, flashing eyes,
gills pumping . . .
I found a piece of paper
thin enough to coax you
and you traveled up it
because you had no choice.
I kept my eyes on you
as I walked down the stairs,
in case I would have to turn
your universe another way.
(I am terrified:
you’ve too many legs.)
Outside, I lay you on the blue
banister and you rise
to full height.
You rear up your head
like a dinosaur
and sway in pain, in hunger,
in lostness and turn haphazard
into shapes unknown. I am rapt
with your life large as mine.
You fall to one side,
roll onto your back
and draw your legs inward
so death can carry you.
I am shocked at the easiness
of your giving up.
I take a deep breath
and you float to the earth
below . . . perhaps to a blade
of grass, a leaf or friend;
I’ll never know.
Karen Bramblett has written poetry for over 30 years and is eager to share it.
She lives in California with her husband and three cats.
Email: Karen Bramblett
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